


Between Heaven and the Deep Blue Sea

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch is sick, John looks after him - they both come to a realization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> very tame, pre-slash for the first chapters or so - moving on towards a bit more explicit material but I'll let you know - not thinking to go into full smut mode though. John in helicopter mode at the start (hovering around his Finch) then Finch will look after him and while all this is happening, they will come to a realization about each other and love will win the day... of course... what did you expect!!!

Reese had just finished speaking with Detective Fusco to give him directions to find the day’s number who was neatly bound and gagged in the warehouse the man had planned on blowing up after having been fired a few weeks before for trying to force a young female employee working in the same warehouse to have sex with him. He’d been caught on tape and had been summarily dismissed.

In the gathering dusk, Reese was walking quickly – he was not too far from the library, and traffic, at the close of the day, was at a standstill so he figured it would be faster to do it on foot. It was also freezing cold on this late December day. He was concerned about Finch who had not been feeling well for the past week or so. Finch never complained but John could see that he was often out of breath and that he was coughing frequently. His heightened colour made Reese fear that he was also running a fever but the few inquiries he’d made to Finch had been shot down in no uncertain terms, “I’m fine, Mr. Reese. I would appreciate it if you turned your attention to our numbers rather than worry unnecessarily about my health. I am not a child – I will consult a doctor if I am not feeling well.” So John had kept his own counsel after that, but he couldn’t help be concerned.

When John arrived at the library, Bear bounded to see him, jumping happily and mock-bowing to him. “I’m going to take Bear for a quick turn around the block, Finch! He seems antsy so it will do him good. See you in a few!” yelled John as he ran back down the stairs again, Bear in tow. Finch hadn’t answered him but if he was at the back of the cavernous room, replenishing the stacks, he probably hadn’t heard him, thought John. And Harold, being under the weather, probably hadn’t taken the dog out since John had done so earlier that morning.

Thirty minutes later, man and dog re-entered the library and made their way upstairs. It had turned even colder and John was happy he had his gloves and a wool cap. It did not do anything for his appearance, he thought, but with the temperature plummeting below zero, he was glad for it. At least there was no snow. He was hoping Finch had left coffee on the burner and that it wasn’t the same pot as early that morning. 

He turned the corner, neared Finch’s desk and was surprised not to see him there. He checked the big couch – sometimes Finch liked to read there, but it too was empty. He replenished the water in Bear’s bowl, gave him some kibble, poured himself a cup of coffee and went to search for Finch… and could not find him anywhere. Not in the kitchenette or the restroom, not in the room that served as their infirmary, not in any of the backrooms, and not in the stacks.

Now he was getting worried. He checked to make sure that Finch hadn’t left but no, his heavy butter-coloured cashmere overcoat was there with his plaid scarf, his leather gloves and his fedora – about which John teased him mercilessly… But where could Finch be?

Then it dawned on him that he’d forgotten to check the small room Finch had kitted out with a camp bed for those nights when he worked too late and did not feel like going back to one of his safe houses. He turned back on his heels, opened the door without knocking, but something was blocking it. He could see that Finch was not on the bed but decided to try to open the door just the same, fearing that a box may had fallen down and blocked it. Being unable to get into rooms, especially in a library, was a dangerous fire hazard, so he pushed on it with all his might and it finally gave in. He let himself in the room… and saw Finch sprawled on the floor behind the door, a small trickle of blood seeping from his forehead.

“Oh, no, no, no! Finch! Finch! Come on, wake up!” John was instantly on his knees, trying to find a pulse and checking his head injury. He pulled Finch up a bit, leaning him against his thighs and that’s when he heard Finch’s laboured breathing. He was wheezing and his lips were turning blue.  But at least he’d opened his eyes and was looking at John as if he barely recognized him. He seemed to have hit his head on a small metal cabinet during his fall. It was only a small nick but it had bled profusely as head wounds are wont to do.

“Finch, Finch, it’s me, John. What happened? Do you remember?” But Finch wasn’t answering, he seemed to be having a lot of difficulty breathing so John took his phone, and called Dr. Enright, asking her to come to his loft where he was planning to take Finch.

As he was trying to manoeuver Finch down the stairs, with Bear following closely, he heard Harold say “It’s OK, John, I’m all right now, I just got dizzy I think…”

“You’re not OK, Finch, you’re barely able to breathe. We’re going to my place and Dr. Enright will meet us there. Now, just stay conscious, that’s all I’m asking you. If you’d listened to me and gone to see a doctor, this wouldn’t have happened. You could have died, Finch. What were you thinking? What if I hadn’t come back to the library? You can’t do this! Not to the numbers! And not to me, Finch!”

John was manoeuvering Finch down the library stairs, one arm around his waist from the back, and one from the front so as not to drop him as Finch could barely move his legs. He was holding on to John for dear life, Bear leading the way down to the sedan in which John sat Finch, belted him in, let Bear sit on the floor at the back. He then hightailed it to the loft and recommenced the manoeuvering of his boss all the way to the elevator and into the loft. Dr. Enright would be there momentarily so he removed Finch’s overcoat, hat and scarf, as well as his suit jacket, and vest while Finch was trying to bat away at his hands, but he had no strength at all so John had no problem going about his work. He then undid the bed, plumped up a few pillows and sat Finch on the side of the bed before lifting his feet and lying him among the pillows. He then untied Finch’s Italian leather shoes, removed his socks, and folded back the comforter over him.

Once Harold was safely lying down, John finally released the breath he felt he’d been holding since finding his friend on the floor of the library. Finch appeared to sleep but his breathing was shallow, sweat was beading his forehead and when Reese put the back of his hand against it, he realized that Finch was burning up. He prepared a cold compress and was placing it gently on Finch’s forehead when he heard Dr. Enright knocking on the front door. He let her in and motioned to Finch.

“How is he?” he asked the doctor, hovering over her after she’d sat down on the side of the bed.

“John, please try and relax. I’m afraid he probably has pneumonia but I need to check a few other things first. I’ll probably send you to the pharmacy later on, but now, please try to sit and relax. You look stressed out and if you keep hovering over me like that, I won’t be able to do my work.” So a chastised John went to sit down on the leather sofa, with Bear in tow, but he kept turning his head towards the bed every time he heard something. After a few minutes, Dr. Enright stood up and John was instantly at her side. “He’s very sick. Pneumonia is a nasty disease. I can’t understand why he did not consult a doctor before. I know you’ll take good care of him… He’s lucky to have such a good friend as you, John” she told him, to which he replied “So am I, Doctor… So am I,” without looking at her, seemingly lost in his thoughts. “Is he going to be OK though?” he finally asked her.

“Well, he needs antibiotics, inhalers, and a few other things – it’s all here,” she said, as she gave John a prescription. “Have that filled, follow the instructions, and keep an eye on him. I won’t have him hospitalized, but he needs bed rest for at least three to four days and after that, I would suggest you take him somewhere hot and sunny for two weeks, or one at the very least.  Keep checking on him, cold compresses and aspirin to take the fever down and if he takes a turn for the worse, call me immediately.”

_…to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch is not a good patient and poor John bears the brunt of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it were me, I'd give Mr. Finch a good dressing down, but John is blinded by love and the last thing he wants to do is be mean to his Finch, especially when the poor man is sick.

After Dr. Enright had left, John went to the pharmacy since Harold appeared to be sleeping peacefully; he also took the time to go to the library and bring back Finch’s main laptop and the few files he had on his worktable. They would divert whatever numbers came in, if any, to Shaw and Fusco for the next few days. On his way back, he dropped by the caterer across the street and picked up home-made chicken soup and an apple pie, hoping Harold would feel like eating a bit.

Upon his return, he set the soup on the stove and went to wake Finch up because he had antibiotics to take. John needed to show him how to use the inhalers and Dr. Enright had also prescribed rubbing alcohol, and told John to give Finch a good rubdown to help bring down his fever. John was already cringing at the idea of trying to convince Harold of that fact.

“Finch… Finch, wake up! Harold, come on, you need to take your meds…”

“Hmmmm” was all the answer John received as Finch tried to turn himself away from John…

“Finch! Come on, wake up” said John, raising his voice a bit.

“Really, Mr. Reese! There’s no need to yell! I may be sick but I’m not deaf,” said Finch, trying to turn himself to glare at John standing by the side of the bed, which brought about a big coughing fit which left Harold spent, sweaty and weak.

“Come on, Finch, here, let me raise you up,” said John as he tried to fit his hands under Harold’s underarms to sit him straighter.

“Mr. Reese! Let go of me!” said Finch, trying to move John’s hands away but unable to sit straighter by himself. But John turned a deaf ear and in a few seconds, Harold was sitting up and the blankets had been rearranged around him. He was fuming…

“Mr. Reese, I do not enjoy being manhandled like a child so please refrain from doing so in the future!” said Harold, his voice curt and cutting.

John sighed and simply handed Harold two aspirins. “Harold, I’m heating some chicken soup for you – Dr. Enright said you need to take your antibiotics with food so it should be ready in a few. While it’s heating up, let me help you get out of your dress shirt and your pants and underwear. I have a warm set of fleece pants and long-sleeved t-shirt – probably much too big but at least you’ll be comfortable,” as he moved to start unbuttoning Finch’s shirt.

“Get away from me, Mr. Reese! Are you insane! Do you think I’ll let you undress me? I really need to get home, Mr. Reese so just kindly hand me my tie and vest if you please,” said Finch imperiously, as he was trying to re-button himself.

John was this close to losing what little patience he had left. He seized Harold’s hands and brought them down on each side of him. “Harold! Look at me! You’re not going anywhere. Dr. Enright does not want you to move for the next four to five days so you will stay here, and I will stay here with you to make sure you do not go anywhere. Now, you know I can put you to sleep real quick by putting a finger on one of your pressure points and put myself out of the misery of dealing with you, but I’d rather not do it so please, don’t make it harder than it has to be. I don’t want to do this any more than you do!” growled John.

“Mphhhh,” said Harold, refusing to look at John. “You annoy me, Mr. Reese! I know very well that you could immobilize me and do what you want with me. I just thought you had a bit more decency than to resort to such tactics! But if it’s the way it has to be, then so be it… but don’t expect me to be happy about it!”

“As if…,” said John very low, but not low enough for Finch not to have heard, and to cast a withering glance to his jailer.

So John went back to the task of unbuttoning Finch’s shirt, being careful not to jar Harold’s neck. He also removed Harold’s undershirt and dressed him in the t-shirt so he would not get cold. He then gently moved Harold down on the bed, but as he went to undo Harold’s belt to slide his pants and underwear down, he looked up at Finch, expecting another fit of anger, but what he saw stopped him in his tracks. Finch’s eyes were half-closed and he had such a look of helplessness and anguish that John could barely move. He grabbed Finch’s hand gently and said in a soft voice: “Finch, I’m sorry… I’m trying to help you here. I know you’re unhappy about it, and I’ll grant you that it’s not easy, but you’re very sick and I want to make you as comfortable as possible. Would you like me to hold the blanket up so you can do this part yourself?”

Harold opened his blue eyes made almost transparent by the fever. His fit of anger had left him tired out and his voice was almost inaudible. “Mr. Reese, at this point, there is nothing I would like more than to do this on my own, but I don’t even have the strength to move around in the bed, so I’ll have to do ask you to do this for me, though I am terribly ashamed to be so helpless.” And at that, he closed his eyes again and appeared to remove himself from the distasteful situation. John was able to quickly remove the garments, slip the warm pants up Finch’s body, encase his feet in warm woolen socks, and replace the blankets around him. John then sat him up and sitting behind Harold, he lifted the t-shirt up at the back, which sent shivers down Harold’s spine. Opening the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he put some in his hands and proceeded to rub Finch’s back, shoulders and neck briskly. It would bring Finch’s fever down and warm him up. He tried to go about it very impersonally and did not speak because he did not want to add to Finch’s discomfort, but he couldn’t help his visceral reaction when Finch started moaning softly while under John’s ministrations. Moved beyond words, he then redressed Finch and pulled him back so he could sit with his back on the headboard. All Finch could do was sigh profoundly, letting his head fall back against it. As John was turning to go back to the kitchen, Harold grabbed his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Reese, I know I’m not a very good patient, and I apologize,” he said, in a tired, little voice which twisted John’s heart.

Reese was back a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of soup and a buttered roll on a tray, with Harold’s antibiotics. He sat on the side of the bed and preparing a spoonful of soup, and bringing it close to Harold’s mouth, said: “Harold, here, have some soup…”

Harold opened his eyes and putting a hand to his mouth, said “Please, I can’t stomach any food right now – I swear I’ll throw up, Mr. Reese.”

“But Harold, you need food so you can have your antibiotics. Dr. Enright said so, and so did the pharmacist.”

“Just give me the damn pills Mr. Reese…”

“But…oh, well, I give up, Finch. Here…”

Finch took the pills with a glass of water and, turning around so he wouldn’t have to look at John, said “Good night, Mr. Reese.” And John was left there, the spoon still in his hand. He went back to the kitchen, put everything away and went to sit on his leather couch. He’d gotten out blankets and pillows for himself and prepared his bed on the couch, took Bear out, had a quick shower and tried to go to sleep, still concerned about Harold. He could hear his laboured breathing and his periodic coughing. He got up again, walked to the bed, put a hand to Harold’s forehead and saw that the fever had abated a bit but he still put a cold compress on Harold’s brow, watching him sleep fitfully for a while before going back to bed. He finally fell asleep a while later.

“Mr. Reese! Mr. Reese! John! John, please, wake up!”

And John was immediately up, running to Harold’s bedside and opening the light. “What is it, Harold? What’s wrong?”

“My stomach! My stomach is killing me! I think I’m going to die!” Finch was folded in half, his hands around his middle. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but this is unbearable!”

“Ahh Finch, I told you. You should have eaten something. That’s why they say antibiotics should be taken with food – they’re extremely hard on the stomach... Why can’t you ever listen to me? Hang on.”

John went to get some antacid tablets and brought back the slice of apple pie and a glass of warm green tea. Harold took the antacids, chewed and swallowed them immediately, and as John was getting ready to sit by the bed and feed Harold some of the pie, he took everything out of John’s hands. “Set the tea on the bed table Mr. Reese, I’ll be damned if I let you spoon feed me. I’m not an invalid!” He proceeded to eat some of the pie, without looking at John who just sat there for a while until Harold threw him another withering glance, which prompted Reese to go back to bed without saying another word.

_… to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More hardship for our poor John but thanks to a Fusco intervention, good sense finally prevail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, moving towards more looooove for our boys so some tiny bit of smut in this chapter - you are well warned if that's not your cuppa... and yes, in the next chapter "the deep blue sea" bit will start to make sense... but not yet!

The sun woke John up. After a few seconds spent getting his bearings, he groaned when he remembered the events of the night before, hoping the day would be a bit easier and that Finch would start feeling somewhat better. He would have given his life for Harold but he was not blind to the fact that the man was not an easy person to live with in the best of circumstances. However, a sick Harold was something else entirely.

But it was a quiet Harold who wished him good morning. He was pale but had been able to sit himself in the bed and was tapping away at his computer.

“Should you be working Harold?” John couldn’t help himself from voicing, but Harold was very gracious: “Thank you for being so patient with me yesterday Mr. Reese.” And making a point to close his computer with a snap, he added: “There is no new number so I am planning to relax and work on getting better,” with a small smile which just about melted John’s heart.

Reese would never have told anyone about it but Harold knew the way to his heart. He was amazed at how close he felt to the man, he who had not gotten close to anyone since his split with Jessica so many years ago. He felt a kinship with Harold, and a tenderness for him he didn’t remember ever feeling for anyone else.

But though they had no new number, Harold had a million things he needed from John, and so the day passed with John at Harold’s beck and call: food, tea, tissues, meds, music, tv, more meds, more tea, more tissues… and add to that running a series of errands through the city, working to keep up with both their covers, and purchasing items Harold felt he absolutely needed.

And so it went for three long, arduous days. While John was running more and more ragged through the city as Harold imperiously directed him through the comm link, not paying any mind to the terrible weather conditions New York was experiencing: wet drizzle, bitter cold, howling winds.

John had been in contact with both Fusco and Shaw. With no new number, they both could go about their regular business but they kept checking up on Harold through John. He’d also told them both that they were welcome to drop by and keep Finch company if they wanted.

Around 3 p.m. on the third day, Fusco arrived at the loft to enquire about Finch’s health. He’d spoken to John and had gotten the key to the loft from him. He had found Reese to be somewhat frazzled (a rare occurrence for the usually calm and collected man) and at his wits’ end. John had asked him to drop by and see if Finch needed anything else.

“Mr. Reese, is that you already? Don’t tell me you haven’t been to Carlini to pick up the new jacket he was making for me!” grumbled Finch as he was tapping away on his computer.

“Nah, it’s just me Professor,” said Detective Fusco, wiping his face still wet from the snow and trying to get most of the water out of his hair. “Man, I wouldn’t put my dog out in this weather!” he exclaimed.

“Please, Detective, it’s hardly a squall. A bit of drizzle never killed anyone!” said Finch, looking at Fusco over his glasses. His blue eyes were blazing and frown lines marked his forehead. He tapped on his ear and went: “NO, Mr. Reese! I said I do not want to eat porter house steak tonight even though it's full of protein and would be good for me – it is too hard on my throat – just get me a piece of fish or something – but no tilapia, no trout, no cod and no tuna! Did you hear me, Mr. Reese? I think the man is purposely not listening to me, I swear!”

Fusco was amazed. He’d always had very civil dealings with Finch and he’d never seen him like that. The man sounded like a drill sergeant and was about as pleasant as a fishwife.  But he still brought a chair closer to the bed to try and keep Finch company for a while.

“Detective, would you please mind that you don’t slide the chair on the floor! You’re going to scratch it! Oh, and if you’re planning on staying, please make yourself useful and get me a glass of water. Mr. Reese was “too much in a hurry” to replenish it when he left earlier, and I’ve been slowly dehydrating here!”

And for an hour, Fusco sat there and listened to Finch berate John ceaselessly until, finally, the man in question arrived home laden with boxes, bags and packages, with a half-inch of snow on his shoulders, looking half-dead.

“Thanks Lionel, I didn’t want to leave Finch alone for too long… I had planned to stop by and get a massage from the therapist here in the building, on the seventh floor, I’m so fucking tired… but I don’t have time now, I want to make Harold his dinner and…” said John but Fusco cut him off.

“Are you kidding me? You are going to go right back out and get your massage, and get an hour of relaxation. Go have a drink somewhere… You’ve been running around for the past three days! I’ll cook Finch his dinner and believe me he’ll eat it! If he was mine, I’d have thrown his ass on the sidewalk in a New York minute! I mean, stand up for yourself, man! I’ve never seen anything like that…” said Fusco. He was bristling with anger. “How can you bear this? I was this close to decking him just to have five minutes of blessed peace!”

“Is that you Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese, are you there?” came Finch’s voice from the other part of the loft.

John sighed loudly, pushing from the wall where he’d been leaning, but before he could say anything, Fusco grabbed him by the shoulder, manhandled him out the door and said “Up! Massage! Now!” and made an about-turn and walked up to Finch.

“He’s gone, Professor! I sent him to get a few hours of peace and quiet. What’s gotten into you? You’re running the poor guy to the ground. Do you want to kill him? And you are turning in a mean-tempered grouch! He may be afraid to tell you what he thinks, but I’m not!”

“Well,” said Finch, “but, he was supposed…”

“I’ll cook your dinner, Professor, and I’m not going to make you anything else so you better like it. You’re going to eat it, and when Reese comes back, you’re going to apologize to him! You’re inconsiderate, you’re insensitive and you’re a pain in the ass! You’re a bully! And you should be ashamed of yourself!” And with that, Fusco turned around and went to the kitchen to cook Finch’s fish which he served to him with an endive salad, green beans and rice. Good thing he knew his way around a kitchen, thanks to his mother who had shown him how to cook when he was a boy.

While Finch was eating, Fusco cleared the kitchen, took Bear for a quick walk and fed him and put away the various items John had brought back from his numerous errands. He was still fuming when he heard the front door open a few hours later. John was removing his overcoat and Fusco went to talk to him. “Feeling better? I’ve fed the beast and I’ve cleared your kitchen. Now, I really need to go and get home in time for Lee’s return from his hockey practice. It’s almost 9 p.m. so I won’t be home for another half-hour or so. But keep me posted and if you need me to come by again, just let me know. I’ll come armed to the teeth.”

“Thanks Lionel, the massage did a lot of good, as did the whiskey. I was so tense I could barely move. How is he?” asked John.

“He’s been quiet but I’ll be frank, I gave him his dinner and scrammed back to the kitchen, so now, he’s all yours…” said Fusco as he put on his coat and left.

\---

As John approached the bed, he saw that Finch was sitting straight in the bed, his hands on his lap, his plate was empty and he had taken his antibiotics. His eyes were half-closed and he was not looking at John. He appeared fairly subdued.

“How are you doing, Finch?”

“Hmmmph…well, apparently I’m a pain in the ass, Mr. Reese.”

“Finch, come on, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine Mr. Reese. However, if it is not asking too much of you, I would like to take a shower. Because I’ve been bedridden for the past four days, and I’m still weak, I just need you to make sure I don’t fall flat on my face. And I need towels, if it’s not too much trouble.  I think it’s about time I start thinking of going back home. I would not want to put you out and be too much of a hardship!”

“Finch, you’re not going anywhere,” answered John as he was gathering another sleep set, towels, razors and other incidentals for Finch. He then helped Finch out of the bed. The man was still wobbly but as John went to put a hand around his waist to help him along, Harold just shot him a baleful glance. “I can make my own way to the bathroom Mr. Reese.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything else, Finch,” said John as he went back to the kitchen to make a few phone calls. He had promised to call Shaw to keep her updated and he also wanted to ask Root (he could not bring himself to call her Ms. Groves and he still did not trust her) if she’d gotten any new number from the Machine. It galled him to have to do so but he did not want to run the risk of new numbers arriving with nobody to look after them.

Ten minutes later, his calls were done and he made his way close to the bathroom, concerned that he still was not hearing any water running. “Finch? Finch, are you OK in there?” But still he heard nothing. “Finch, I’m going to come in now unless you tell me not to…” When he still heard no answer, he opened the door and found Harold sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, his head leaning on the counter.

“Harold? Harold, what’s wrong! Are you OK?” he asked.

“I started coughing and I couldn’t catch my breath, and I nearly fell so I sat here and now it’s like my legs won’t hold me up.” Harold looked up at him, his glasses askew, his face ashen.

“Oh Harold, hang on. I’ll help you.” John started the water in the shower, made sure the temperature was just perfect, quickly bent down and started undressing Harold and, leaning him against the shower door, undressed himself quickly. This all happened so quickly that Harold could not even protest and he found himself, entirely naked in the shower with a very naked John Reese. He did not know where to look but since he was so nearsighted, it did not much matter, especially with the steam in the shower stall.  “Wrap your arms around my waist so you won’t lose your balance, Finch,” said John, and he went about washing Harold’s hair with the utmost care, his large, strong hands gently massaging Harold’s scalp and neck. “Mr. Reese, please don’t, please! I’m not… I can’t…ohhh, please…!”

“It’s OK Harold, I’ve got you. Just hang on, you’ll feel much better afterwards.” John then proceeded to wash his back, stomach, arms and shoulders, and then, eventually, handed him the washcloth so he could finish by himself. He then rinsed them both and, holding on securely to Harold, got them both out of the stall to dry him with a warm, fluffy towel. He then helped him dress and sat him back on the closed toilet seat and proceeded to dry himself while Harold looked at him covertly, having found his glasses. He was amazed at the strength that emanated from the ex-soldier. The sinewy arms, the strong thigh, the swell of the buttocks with the dimples at the top, the flat belly, the hairless chest, the small, puckered nipples and the heavy uncut cock which swayed gently over a set of plump testicles. Harold felt himself harden at the sight, amazed that, even as sick as he was, his body still had a mind of its own. John wrapped a towel around himself and then, lifting Harold’s face gently between his hands, proceeded to shave him with the utmost care. He finished with a very hot towel which he placed around Harold’s face and a dab of Harold’s preferred aftershave which he’d purchased that afternoon while running his numerous errands.

“Well, Mr. Reese, I think I will forego the services of my barber from now on! You do this admirably well,” said Harold in a voice tinged equally with awe and arousal.

John helped Finch walk all the way back to the main room, sat him down on the leather couch and then went to change the bed. He then made his way back to Finch and helped him to the bed.

“Here Finch, you must be tired after all this, so why don’t you try to sleep now,” said John, closing the light and bringing the comforter up around Harold’s shoulders. He then gently ran the back of his hand over Finch’s forehead to make sure the fever had not reappeared. “Good night, Harold…” added John as he made his way to his makeshift bed on the big leather couch.

\---

“John? John? Are you asleep?”

“Hmmm, no Finch, I’m reading. What do you need?”

“Would you come here please? I need to speak to you.”

John got up, put his yoga pants and t-shirt back on, and as he was about to bifurcate and move to Harold’s side of the bed, Harold said “If you don’t mind, Mr. Reese, would you get on the other side. It hurts my neck to have to look up to you…”

So John retraced his steps and sat on the other side of the bed.

“Come closer, Mr. Reese, my throat is very sore and I don’t want to speak too loud but there are a few things I need to say to you.”

“I’m here Finch, what is it?”

“As I’m sure you know by now, I am not a pleasant person to live with. I’ve been on my own for a while and even before that, I always had a mean streak I think.  You see, I did not have an easy childhood, and I had to develop my own way of dealing with bullies. I was small, I did not run fast, I could not throw a punch, and I wore glasses. So my quick wit and my ability to deflect criticism with cutting remarks were my arsenal to defend myself. As I grew older these traits amplified and after my accident, they became even worse. And it has now been brought to my attention that I have become what I hated the most: a mean-spirited bully. I apologized to you a few days ago for my rudeness, and I went right back to my usual ways. So here I am, apologizing to you again and hoping that you will forgive my outbursts. I did not mean to be so unpleasant. I never wanted to tire you out… I just get so wrapped up in my own mind sometimes that I tend to forget that you are the one who gets to bear the brunt of my nastiness when you are the last person in the world who should have to do so.  You see, John, I don’t have many friends… in fact there is probably only one person I deeply care about nowadays, and that person is you. And it pains me deeply that, after you have taken such good, such tender care of me in the past few days, I treated you in the most shabby manner! Detective Fusco told me that I was insensitive and inconsiderate; in fact that I am a pain in the ass! You must be so angry with me! Will you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?"

John moved closer to Harold. He could feel Harold’s breath on his neck and it made the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. “Fusco! I’ll kill the sonovabitch!” growled Reese. "What I’ve done for you Harold, I did because I wanted to, because you needed me to, and because it makes me happy to those things for you. Sure, I was a bit tired at the end, but I knew these things needed to be done. I’m not angry Harold, I could never be angry with you. And there’s nothing to forgive,” murmured John running he back of his hand on Harold’s freshly shaven cheek. “Now, try to get some sleep!”

“John, may I ask you something else?” said Harold, grabbing John’s hand so he wouldn’t go. “Would you mind very much staying here tonight? I have to confess I feel somewhat despondent and it would ease my mind to have you close at hand?”

“Of course, Harold,” said John, who was surprised to feel Harold move closer to him and gently wrap his hand around his waist. John was so overwhelmed that he could barely move but he ended up wrapping his arms around Finch and bringing the comforter up around their shoulders.

The click-click of Bear’s nails on the floor reminded John that their dog was making his way to his doggie bed, so he said, “Bear! Up!” and Bear jumped on the foot of the very large bed, made a few circles, and promptly went to sleep.

Rubbing his cheek on the top of Harold’s head, John said: “Say goodnight, Harold,” and Harold said “Goodnight Harold,” which made John snort, which ruffled the hair on the top of Harold’s head, which made him bury himself deeper in John’s arms, which made John wrap his arms tighter around Harold... and that’s how they both fell asleep that night.

 

... _to be continued_...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the boys finally go the deep blue sea... looooove ensues, of course...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of fluff and smut here - you be warned... 
> 
> This marks the end of this fic which I thought would be a 2000-word thing and which ended up as a 10,000 word behemoth... go figure!
> 
> Comments are love, as usual ;o)
> 
> And as usual, none of this belongs to me... not the show, not the boys (unfortunately)... just my overactive imagination and whatever mistakes remain after my proofing.

When Harold woke up, it was still dark, and not wanting to disturb John, he just burrowed deeper in his arms, savouring the intimacy of their entwined limbs. Their mingled smell tickled his nose: part shampoo, soap and fabric softener, part sweat, heat, morning breath and the salty, yeasty heat of their arousal. He also realized that his breathing was much less laboured. Smiling, happy that he was finally on the mend, he slipped back into sleep without realizing it.

John woke him up a few hours later. “Dr. Enright is on her way for your exam, Finch. I’ll get breakfast ready and if you want to have a shower before she arrives, you better go soon. She said she’d be here at 8:30!” said John.

Harold was walking out of the shower, dressed in another of John’s sleep sets, toweling his hair as the doorbell rang. He and John had breakfast while Dr. Enright had a coffee and when she examined Harold shortly after, she found him much better than at the beginning of the week. In fact, she pronounced him well enough to go and spend a week or so under sunny climes. Of course, she had to twist his arm a bit since he was not sure he wanted to leave for that long, but when he saw the longing in John’s eyes and heard his “It would do you a world of good Finch, and frankly, I’m a bit tired myself, so it might not be a bad idea at all!” he relented. In fact, he did not mind spending a week or so alone with John and hoped that they might be able to become even closer.

While Harold made arrangements to rent a private jet and have a car waiting for them at the Miami airport, John ran a few errands, put some order in the loft and had Fusco come by and pick up Bear – Lee would be thrilled to have the big dog around, and it would be good for Bear to be around someone young and energetic to roughhouse a bit. Harold also rented a small two-bedroom executive beachfront house, and contacted a local concierge service to have it stocked prior to their arrival later that day. Packing for John was done in a few minutes: jeans, shorts, t-shirts, one light grey linen suit, a bathing suit and a few toiletries were packed rapidly in a large black leather bag and he was good to go. He dropped Finch at one of his safe houses so he could pack and in an hour, they were boarding at La Guardia, to arrive in Miami two hours later.

By then Harold was dead tired even though it was only early afternoon. While John was putting the suitcases in the sedan they’d rented, Harold reclined the seat and he was already asleep when John manoeuvered the car on the I-95 for the two-hour drive south to Key West. Harold woke up as John was stopping in front of the lovely Arts and Crafts bungalow which was surrounded by a large garden and a sparkling lap pool. The back of the house was right on the beach. John’s face, when he turned to Harold, looked so thrilled that Finch was very happy with his decision. “Well, Mr. Reese, I gather you agree with my choice?”

“Well, Harold, I never doubted you for one minute,” said John, in his usual sexy, raspy voice which always sent shivers down Harold’s spine. “I can hear the ocean calling me, Finch!”

“Be my guest, Mr. Reese, but don’t expect me to join you. I’ll watch you from the terrace if you don’t mind,” said Finch. His limp was aggravated by uneven terrain and walking in the sand was tricky at best for him. Add to that the strength of the waves, and it made the ocean something Finch preferred to enjoy from afar.

“I’ll just unpack the car and get us settled and then I’ll dive in,” said John, following Finch inside the house. A few minutes later, bedrooms having been sorted with John insisting that Harold took the one with the view of the ocean, John was bounding down the few steps to the beach, throwing his towel as he ran to the water.  Harold was leaning on the guardrail of the terrace, watching him with a smile on his face. How wonderful, he thought, to be able to enjoy fully one’s body when it did your bidding… how alive John seemed, jumping up and down in the waves, diving between them, coming up a few seconds later only to dive back in. The man looked like a half-man, half-fish creature, muscles rippling, his laugh echoing in the surf, at one with nature and the elements. Harold could have watched him for hours.

As John started walking back towards the house, the glow of the setting sun hit him and he suddenly appeared to be made of shimmering gold. It fairly took Harold’s breath away and in a few seconds, the happy warmth that had enveloped him turned to a forlorn darkness. How ridiculous, he thought, to have imagined that John would have been interested in him, in his crippled body. How pathetic! John belonged with those lovely, sleek creatures as beautiful as he was, not with a pasty-white bookworm who burned in the sun and who was so nearsighted that he could not walk two steps without his glasses… and as John walked up on the terrace, Harold’s hand, which had been raised in a welcoming gesture, simply slid against John’s arm as Harold turned around. “Finch, Finch are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I’m all right, Mr. Reese, I did not see a ghost… I’m afraid what I’ve seen is only too real. I’m sorry,” said Finch as he got into the house, not looking at John. “I apologize, I’m not really good company tonight, but it’s been a very long day and I’m afraid I don’t seem to have as much stamina as I thought I had… I’m fairly knackered so if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to bed. I made arrangements for a caterer to deliver dinner for us around 6 p.m. every night, so they should be here soon, and the fridge and wine cellars are fully stocked. Of course, you can also walk down to Duval Street if you prefer. I hear there are many very good restaurants. I’ll see you tomorrow, good night,” said Finch, closing his bedroom door in John’s face.

“But, Finch…”

“Good night, Mr. Reese,”

“But, won’t you want to eat something?”

“No, Mr. Reese, as I said, I’m not hungry and I’m going to bed now. See you tomorrow.”

“G’nite, Finch,” murmured John, gloomily as he turned and went to sit on the terrace with a beer, waiting for the caterer. It was a lovely terrace, with a big striped awning and outfitted with a dining table and chairs, two side-by-side lounge recliners and a large two-person hammock, which John eyed balefully. “Much too big for one lonely person,” he said to himself.

He ended up having half of the catered dinner, which was very good, with a glass of wine, and then watched a bit of TV, going to bed early himself. “At least, I’ll be well rested tomorrow,” he thought as he fell asleep.

-.-.-.-

Morning saw Finch up early, dressed in a pair of sharply pressed grey summer pants and a grey and white, short-sleeved striped linen shirt, pressing orange juice into two twll frosted glasses. John was attired in his plaid bathing suit, with a white tee, his hair still dripping from the shower. “I’m planning to take serious sun today, Finch” he said as he was about to sit at the counter. 

“Wait, Mr. Reese. Here, let’s take our trays and have breakfast on the terrace, it’s going to be a lovely day I think! You be careful you don’t get a sunburn, you know, the sun is much stronger now,” said Finch as he was about to go into professorial mode.

“Yes, Mother!” said John, teasing Finch who lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Well, it’s true you know…” but John was not listening anymore, mesmerized as he was by the sparkly ocean.

Breakfast done, Finch sat himself again at the table with his laptop and a pile of books and magazine. “Finch, don’t you start working already! We have a good team in place in New York so try to enjoy yourself for a change,” said John as he was walking down and was installing one of his towels on the sand.

“I’m not working, Mr. Reese, I just have a bit of updating to do to our cover identities and then, I have a bit of research to do – a book dealer I know has just posted a new list of first editions he acquired recently and I want to see if I can maybe snag a few of them! Now you be careful with that sun! Did you bring any sunscreen?”

“Finch, I have skin like leather, I don’t need sunscreen.Now, go back to what you were doing.  This is me going into full sun mode,” said John as he unfolded his long body on his beach towel with a loud sigh “Ahhh, this is heaven!” he said, which made Finch smile.  He’d done a lot of thinking the night before and had decided that though what he had hoped for with John would never happen, he would not let it spoil his holiday. It was so rare that he went away, that he decided he would force himself to enjoy it and would do his utmost to make that time away from the library, the best it could be for John. The man worked tirelessly, even at night and on weekends, never complained, and he was also the best friend Finch had since he’d lost Nathan. And with that, Finch spent the next three hours on his computer or with his nose in his magazines.

-.-.-.-

POKE (…!)

POKE POKE (sighhhh!)

POKE POKE POKE (grumble!)

POKE POKE POKE POKE (GRUMBLE, GRUMBLE!!!!)

PO… (“Finch!!! If you poke me one more time, I swear I’ll break your finger! And you’re standing in my sun!)

“Well, Mr. Reese, in that case, don’t come running to me… when you realize you’ve burned to a crisp!” huffed Finch as he made his way back in the house to get a glass of iced green tea.

“I’m OK Finch!”

“Hmmmph… I’m sure you’ll get a sun stroke!”

“Here, see? No danger!” said John as he wound the extra towel around his head, and went back to being a lizard.

An hour later, Finch had gone back in to make himself a salad when John came in, walking gingerly. “Ahhh Mr. Reese, you’ve decided to rejoin the world of the living?”

“Well, I’m going to have a quick shower and a bite to eat and then, I thought we could go down to Duvall Street for a walk,” said John as he made his way to his bedroom, chucking his bathing suit as he did so, in time for Harold to notice the lovely white buttocks… surrounded by angry red skin. He almost told John about it but decided to keep his peace since John seemed to know what he was doing.

“OOOwwwwww!!!!!!!! OOOWWWWWW!!!!!!”

Harold ran to the bedroom in a panic. “Mr. Reese, Mr. Reese, what’s wrong?”

He was just in time to see John run out of the bathroom, naked as the day he was born, wet and jumping from one foot to the other. “John, what happened?”

“Ohhhh shit, shit shit! That hurts!” said John, trying to locate something to hide his nakedness.

“Is there anything I can do, Mr. Reese?” asked a panicked Harold, wondering what could have John screaming like that.

Having located another towel which he wrapped gingerly, low around his waist, John sat on the side of the bed. “Well, Harold, I won’t tell you that you were right, but I’m thinking that maybe-I-overdid-it-on-the-sun-and-I-got-a-bad-sunburn-which-hurts-like-a-sonovabitch…”

“Mr. Reese! Really? I mean it’s not as if I didn’t warn you now, is it?”

“I know, I know, Finch, you were right and I was wrong!” said John, a mighty frown appearing on his face. It was bad enough suffering from a nasty sunburn, but if Finch had to gloat about it…

“Well, it’s a good thing SOMEONE thought about bringing after-sun cream now, isn’t it, Mr. Reese? Because SOMEONE ELSE was just too manly to take precautions! Hmmph… wait here, I’ll be right back. In the meantime, remove the comforter and top sheet, and lie on your belly on the bed so I can put some cream on you.

“Well, Finch I can do it…”

“Mr. Reese, you’ve done enough as it is. And besides, how are you going to apply lotion to your own back? Have you grown extra arms that I don’t know about? Take off that towel and lie down. Now!” said Finch in that clipped tone of voice that he used when he wanted to be obeyed. And it worked like a charm. In a few seconds John had removed the comforter, taken off his towel, and he was lying on the bed waiting for Finch to return. Somehow, the redness on his cheeks was not due only to the sun…

“Finch, I can do it, I swear!”

“Here we go. There will be no swearing Mr. Reese. Aloe gel after-sun lotion. That should work wonders.” said Finch, handing John two aspirins and a tall glass of water. “Have those, Mr. Reese. I’m afraid you may indeed have a sunstroke so these will come in handy and they’ll help you sleep away the discomfort of a bad sunburn.  Of course, you having leather skin, you wouldn’t know about it, but I’ve been on the receiving end of too many sunburns in my life not to know how to deal with them! Now, brace yourself, this is going to smart…” said Harold as he poured some lotion in his hands.

The yelp John let out as Finch’s hand landed on his shoulders was probably heard across town. “Shhhhh, it’s OK, I’ve got you, see, it will cool you down and you’ll be more comfortable afterwards. That’s it, let me take care of this for you. Now, isn’t it better? Doesn’t it cool your skin down?.” said Harold as he gentled John, his hands applying the lotion to the burning skin. “There you go, see, it’s OK, that’s just because it surprised you,” and Harold kept that soft banter as he kept applying the cream.

“Ooohhh,” said John at some point, trying to move sideways.”

“Mr. Reese, what are you doing? Will you stop moving, you’re as slippery as an eel!”

“Finch, you’re tickling me! Don’t touch me there… oohhhh!” said John, as Harold’s hands hovered around his waist, making John snort.

“I’m sorry Finch, I’m very ticklish around my waist area,” said John to the crook of his arm.

“Ok, Ok, here, I’ll do your thighs instead,” said Harold as he moved to the long thighs, all the while admiring the swell of John’s buttocks, dusted as they were with a sheen of barely-there fine as down hairs. His hands itched to caress them but he resisted and kept going down John’s body.

John had become mesmerized by Harold’s voice. The low, almost hypnotizing tone that sounded like the entreaties of a lover, the words murmured so low that John had to pay attention to hear them. He also had to bite the skin on his wrist to keep from moaning at Finch’s ministrations. By the time Harold had finished applying the lotion to the overheated skin, John had an erection that was about to poke a hole in the mattress, and Finch fared barely better. Harold closed the drapes and the light and said, in his soft, low voice, “Now try to get some sleep, I’ll look in on you in an hour or so,” and John couldn’t wait for Harold to get out so he could take matters in his own hands, so to speak.

Harold was reclining on the terrace when a sheepish John came to join him, a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Did you get some sleep, Mr. Reese?”

“Yes, Finch, and thanks for everything back there,” said John, though he appeared to be almost jumping from foot to foot. “Do you think I can borrow that cream of yours again Finch? I think I caught a sunburn on the underside of my feet and it’s so painful I can barely stand on my feet.”

“Here Mr. Reese, said Finch, as he placed another towel on the chair he’d just vacated. “Take this chair, the towel should keep your poor skin from sticking to it, and I’ll go get the cream,” said Harold.

John sat down, rearranged the towel more securely around his waist (the skin around it was too tender for him to wear anything else), and sighing profoundly, waited for Harold to bring him the cream.

Harold came back out with an iced coffee for John and a glass of white wine for himself, and the cream, of course.

“What, Finch, I don’t deserve a glass of wine?”

“Mr. Reese, alcohol if you have a sunstroke would be very bad for you so I’m afraid you’re on an alcohol-free diet for the time being. And don’t call me Mother,” added Finch with a small frown. “You know I’m right so, just as I was a good patient when you looked after me, (which caused John to roll his eyes) you now have to let me look after you… without a word of complaint! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Finch, you’re right,” said a contrite John, extending his hand so Harold would give him the bottle of lotion.

“No, no, no, Mr. Reese. You stay there and I’ll do it. You relax. It’s my fault, I entirely forgot to do your poor feet earlier. Why didn’t you ask me?

“Well, I didn’t think of it, Finch,” said John, his voice raising an octave or so as Finch sat at on a low bench and grabbed John’s foot in both hands.

And so Harold took a hold of John’s right foot and proceeded to massage it, his fingers mapping its length from the tip of the toes to the base of the heel. He did everything: ran his fingers around the underside of the heel, running them up the high arch where the tender skin was massaged till it brought goosebumps to the whole of John’s body. He then took the toes and ran his fingers all around each one, massaging each centimeter. Then both hands would take hold of each side of the foot and the thumbs would work the top of the foot all the way up the ankle, and all the way down again. The bones on the side of the ankle would be rubbed gently and the hands would move again up the leg, halfway to the knee, and would go down again, passing again and again over the high arch. Harold went about his work lovingly, as if had all the time in the world, not paying any mind to the state of arousal John was in. He was fairly beside himself and did not know what to do. He’d picked up the cushion Harold had placed behind his head and put it over his groin, pretending to use it as a place to put his hands. He could barely hold his sighs and finally resorted to lifting one arm over his face, trying to hide his predicament from Harold. And then Harold moved to the other foot… and treated it as tenderly as he had done the other one. By the time he was done, John was purring like a cat.

And then, moving the bench up near John’s waist, he ran his hand softly on the side of John’s face and, gently caressing his cheekbone while John rubbed his head against his hand, Harold asked him softly “Is there anything you’d like me to do for you, John?” all John could do was catch the heel of Harold’s thumb between his teeth, whimpering, and opening the towel which revealed his very hard cock, angry red, the skin retracted far beyond the pulsing head from which a silver strand of precum was slowly dripping on John’s hard stomach. “Please, Harold…?” his eyes closing, the long lashes making dark shadows over his lovely cheekbones.

His hand still covered in after-sun gel, Harold wrapped it around John’s cock, reveling in the girth and the heat of it, and sliding his hand up, once, twice, brought John to a shuddering climax which sent long jets of white cream which landed on John’s chest. Harold held on to John’s softening organ, squeezing it gently until the last few drops slid slowly on John’s thigh. He then dipped his finger around the lovely crown and head, which caused John to moan, and then he moved his finger to his lips, wanting to taste the essence of this man who meant everything to him. He then gently moved John’s arm away from his face and, bending down, kissed him softly on the corner of his mouth. “How perfect is that, and how lovely are you? You’re so… so…” and for once, Harold was at a loss for word.

John opened his eyes which held all the tenderness in the world, and said “Oh, Harold, I’m sorry… I love you…I know you don’t… I know you’re not… I know… It’s not..” and he brought his head back against the chair, his eyes closed, a tear making its way from his eye to become lost in the silver hair at his temple.

“Shhhh,” said Harold, kissing that tear back from John’s temple to the corner of his eye. “There are so many things you know, aren’t there, John? But there are so many more which you should know and you don’t… that every morning I await the renewed pleasure of your company, that I would gladly give my life for you, that you give me a reason to live, that were it not for you I probably wouldn’t be here, that your smile makes my day complete and my life worthwhile, and that I love you, with all my heart, and for the rest of my life,” murmured Harold, his cheek gently rubbing against John’s. “Now, what do you say we take this loving fest of ours and move it inside where we will very gingerly try and discover how we can go about getting closer without you being in too much pain?”

And helping John get up from the chair, Harold wrapped his arm around John’s waist as they made their way inside the bungalow, and closed the door behind them. And for the next few hours, the sound of the surf covered the sounds of their lovemaking. As they slipped into a well-deserved sleep, Harold grabbed John’s hand and kissed it, amazed at that turn of events, and at the fact that barely 24 hours before, he’d despaired that this man he loved so much, would ever love him back.


End file.
